


To kindle a spark in the darkness

by Anonymous



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: 15th Century, 16th Century CE, Action/Adventure, Gen, Historical, Historical Accuracy, Historical Inaccuracy, Muslim Character, Peril, Religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29600187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: At three points in his life, Hassan encounters a group of four mysterious warriors who will change the course of his life in various ways.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 21
Collections: Five Figure Fanwork Exchange 2020





	To kindle a spark in the darkness

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tam_Cranver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tam_Cranver/gifts).



_Former Emirate of Granada, now part of the Kingdom of Castile, 1493_

The little group picked their way slowly through the mountains, moving by night because it was less likely their passage would be noticed. With women and children among their number, and a train of pack donkeys laden down with all the belongings they had been able to carry, it was a painstaking ordeal, neither swift nor efficient. One of the men walked ahead of the party, to keep a watchful eye out for dangers on the path ahead, and one followed, ensuring no one was following them or lagging behind. Not permitted to carry weapons, they walked with stout walking staves that could serve as clubs if needed. They stayed as silent as they could under the circumstances - the donkeys' hooves muffled and the children hushed by their parents if they began to fuss. They knew that if they were caught it would mean, at the best, the loss of their goods, at worst, a far worse fate.

They had set out from the city of Granada, intending to head to the port of al-Munakkab, and from thence sail to Melilla. From there, they would continue on to Fez, where many others had gone before them, including their former Sultan, now dwelling in exile. It would not be the same as their once-comfortable lives in Granada, but it would be - they hoped - safe. 

The new rulers of Granada, King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella, had promised tolerance to their Muslim subjects. The treaty they had made was meant to ensure that they would be permitted to keep their homes, their possessions, and their faith. But almost at once, there had been signs that this was going to change. One of the earliest indications of a darkening future ahead was when they had revoked the right of Muslim men to carry weapons. "We may keep our homes, but have no way to defend them," Muhammad ibn Abdullah al-Wazzan had grumbled to his wives and his younger brother Salih. But still they had lingered, hoping that the situation might not worsen, not wanting to venture into the unknown. Muhammad had three young children, including a new baby daughter, and Salih had just been married. The prospect of setting out on such an uncertain voyage was worrying.

But then had come the troubles. Christian neighbors who had once been friendly had begun to avoid them in the streets or the marketplace. The merchants and tradesmen who used to visit Muhammad's weigh-station to ensure the fairness of their measurements took to going elsewhere, and his business began to suffer. They heard accounts of people in some outlying villages who had their houses ransacked, who were beaten and robbed, whose Quran was taken into the street and burned, and wondered when - not if - such dangers would come closer to home. 

Finally, it had been Muhammad's first wife Rima who said, "Let us go now, while we still can." And his second wife Sara had agreed, saying, "The journey will not become safer the longer we delay, and we may lose more by staying here than by leaving." And so they had packed their goods, and Muhammad had asked his brother Salih if he and his new wife Zaynab would come with them to Fez, for the trip would be a difficult one, and there was safety in numbers. Tales circulated of bandits who would lie in wait in the mountains, waiting for Muslim travellers to pass by to rob them, knowing that they would be unarmed and likely carrying many valuables. At least with two adult men in their party, Muhammad reasoned, they would be somewhat better defended if they ran into such brigands.

Muhammad took his son Hassan, who was not quite six years old, aside before their departure, and said, "While we travel, you must be brave, and quiet, and look after your little sister Amina. If I tell you to hide, you must take her with you, and conceal yourselves among the rocks and bushes until one of us tells you it is safe. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Father," Hassan said. He was just old enough to grasp that the trip would be long and dangerous, and that they would not be returning to their home, the golden-brown house with the garden where he and his sisters had been born. He did not understand just how long or how tiring it would be, how strange to walk at night and sleep in the day as best as he could, tucked under a blanket with his sisters, how his feet would hurt and he would wish he was still small enough to be carried like his sisters were. Still, he felt a responsibility not to whine or cry like a baby, but to continue on like his father and uncle did. He even picked up a sturdy stick from the side of the path, like the ones they carried, and imagined hitting a bandit with it if one came near enough.

It was about forty miles to the coast, where they planned to take passage on a ship. Hassan had never been on a ship before, and that part of the journey sounded exciting to him. But first, they had to walk through the mountains. Forty miles did not sound like an extremely long walk, even with donkeys and small children who could not keep up the pace of the adults, but through steep, treacherous mountain paths, it was a journey of a week at least. Some nights they would be lucky to travel even three or four miles before they would have to rest, weary and anxious.

On this particular night, the moon was only a sliver, and the path was dark as they picked their way along the downward slope of a mountain. Going downward was easier than upward in some ways, but there was a greater risk of someone slipping and hurting themselves, a rock coming loose under a donkey's foot to rattle loudly down the hill, or of half their packs sliding off into a ravine, so they proceeded cautiously. Muhammad stayed at the head of the group, while Salih walked behind, with the women and children in the middle. 

Hassan was not certain what caused his father to stop. He was tired and his feet hurt, and for a moment he wondered if perhaps they were stopping for the night. But his father had his hand up, signalling for the rest of them to be still, and Hassan's mother looked worried. "Children, hide now," his father whispered, and Hassan knew his duty. Clutching his stick in one hand, he grabbed his sister Amina by the other, and together they ran uphill into the scrub brush at the side of the path. It pricked and scratched, and Amina whimpered, but Hassan did his best to shush her as he looked for a safe place to hide. There was a large boulder up ahead, and he pulled her behind it, into a shadowy nook, hoping it would be good enough.

He couldn't see what was happening below them, but he could hear a man's voice, speaking in Castilian. "...fleeing like the rats you are," were the first words Hassan could make out, and raucous laughter from several other men. It wasn't friendly laughter. "We have weapons trained on you. Hand over your gold and we'll let you go."

"We have no gold," his father said. Hassan could hear from the way his voice trembled that he was trying to sound calm, but he wasn't being very successful. "We are only trying to leave this land, as we have the right to do. I ask you to let us pass."

"No gold? Everyone knows you infidels are rich, with so much coin you've stashed away. We'll search your packs, and if it isn't there, then we'll start on the women's robes..."

Then there came a whisper of wind rushing through trees, and a strangled choking gurgle, and the unmistakable sound, even to a small child, of a body hitting the rocky ground. There was a loud commotion, men shouting and running, women screaming, the donkeys braying, and in the middle of all of that, Amina started to cry. "It's all right," Hassan tried to tell her, whispering softly amid the din, "don't be scared, stay quiet so they don't find us." But he was scared too, torn between trying to stay hidden and trying to run further away. His palms felt damp on the stick he was still clinging to, and he thought if a bandit tried to attack them now, it might slip out of his hands entirely.

From out of the darkness, a figure loomed, and Hassan swung out wildly with his makeshift weapon. He struck nothing but the air, but the man took a step back anyway. "Ah, a fierce warrior - don't hit me, please - I'm here to help." He spoke in the familiar Arabic that Hassan's family used at home, not the Castilian of the bandits, so Hassan lowered the stick, although he kept it clutched close to his chest for safekeeping.

"Keep still," said the man, who had a large knife in his hand. He crouched down so he was speaking to Hassan face to face. "Are you both unharmed?"

"Yes," said Hassan, and Amina stopped crying, looking up at the unfamiliar figure with wide, teary eyes. "Who are you?"

"My name is Yusuf. My friends and I will help you and your family get to safety. For now, you stay here," he told them. Hassan was still frightened, and had no idea what was going on in all the commotion below, but the man's voice seemed warm and his eyes looked kind, so he nodded, squishing himself down behind the boulder and putting his arms around his little sister.

The man who called himself Yusuf stood up, looking around, knife gripped hard in his fist. From out of the darkness, a loud clap sounded, like the voice of thunder, and Yusuf tumbled back, falling over rocky ground. Hassan cried out in surprise and overcame his fear long enough to crawl over to him. His chest was a bloodstained mess, and his eyes, which had been so kind just moments before, were blank and staring. Hassan had not seen a dead man this close before, but he knew that he was looking at death. Their one chance of help lay bleeding on the side of the mountain.

Then Yusuf gave a sharp gasp, sitting up. Hassan scrambled back in alarm. Yusuf felt his chest with one hand, fumbling for his weapon with the other. "Ugh, one of them has an arquebus," he said, almost to himself, and then, noticing Hassan a few feet away, he gave a rueful smile. "I didn't mean for you to see that, little one."

"You were dead," Hassan said, still in shock.

"It was but a glancing blow," Yusuf assured him. "Only knocked the wind out of me for a few moments. It looked worse than it was."

Hassan wasn't sure he entirely believed that, but maybe it was true. The stranger did seem to be alive, so he must have been mistaken. Out of the darkness, another man appeared, this one with paler skin and a brown cloak and a sword. Hassan scooted back to where his sister was hiding, watching as this new arrival put his hand out for Yusuf. He couldn't quite understand the language they spoke together - it seemed a mix of Arabic and the Latin the Christian priests used and something else entirely - but he had the sense they were friends, that the other man was asking if he was all right. Yusuf embraced him swiftly, and then gestured to Hassan and Amina, presumably talking about them. The other man glanced in their direction for a moment, and nodded. Then he said something else and ran back down the hill, into the midst of the fighting. 

Yusuf crept closer to the children and said, "My friends are hard at work - soon you'll be back with your family. I'll keep watch over you in the meantime."

Another figure stumbled out of the night, but this one wasn't a friend. Yusuf stood, planting his feet firmly on the ground, and faced the bandit, who seemed startled to find anyone there, let alone an armed warrior rather than some defenceless children. With a cry, the bandit threw himself at Yusuf, swinging wildly with his sword, and Yusuf raised his much smaller knife to defend himself. In the space of a few moments, the fight was over, Yusuf driving his knife into the bandit's throat and pushing him aside so his body rolled a short distance away from the children. Hassan watched with a mix of fear and awe.

A woman passed by, holding a bow in one hand and an arquebus in another. Hassan didn't know she was a woman at first, but her voice was unmistakable as she called out to her companion. "I got the one who hit you," she said, and Hassan could hear the satisfaction in her voice. Yusuf turned to her and she tossed the arquebus in his direction. He caught it out of the air with his free hand, holding it carefully. "See if you can do anything useful with this thing," the woman warrior said, and then dashed back into the darkness, already drawing an arrow from the quiver on her back and taking aim at another foe.

Yusuf eyed the weapon dubiously. "What do you expect me to do with this? It's basically an expensive club," he muttered, but nevertheless he set to work, crawling over to the fallen body of the bandit and returning with a powder horn and some other items Hassan couldn't see clearly. He worked swiftly, reloading the weapon and using a fire steel he took from his belt to get the flame relit, striking it twice, three times, before the fire caught. "Hold this for me," he told Hassan, handing him the flint and steel for safekeeping, "and cover your ears." Taking aim over the top of the boulder, with the arquebus resting steady on his shoulder, he waited for a few moments and then fired. The noise was loud, and when Hassan's ears stopped ringing, the fighting seemed to be over.

"It's safe now," Yusuf told them, slinging the gun over his shoulder and putting the knife back into a sheath at his belt. "Come with me." He held his hands out and Hassan and Amina took them, trusting this strange man completely by now. He led them back down to the road, where Hassan saw his mother and ran to hug her, Amina trailing only a few steps behind.

"Are you all right?" his mother cried frantically, checking each of them for any injuries. "Oh, you're unharmed, mashallah!" She hugged each of them tightly, or as tightly as she could while also holding the baby. "May the others be safe as well." 

Yusuf's friend, the woman who had run by during the battle, assured her, "The men went after the donkeys. But they were unharmed, when last I saw them." She and another woman were busying themselves by checking over the bodies of the dead bandits and then dropping them, one by one, into the nearby ravine. Hassan's mother and the other women still seemed anxious, despite these words of reassurance, keeping close together as the group of strange warriors watched over them.

As it turned out, catching the donkeys took longer than the fight had. Hassan's father and his uncle returned with them at last, walking side by side with the man in the brown cloak. They were talking in low voices, and Hassan couldn't hear what they were saying, but he was relieved that his father was safe. "These good folk will walk with us the rest of the way to the coast," his father told the others.

They travelled two days with them, and had no further trouble from bandits or anything else. The group of warriors saw them safely out of the mountains, and then bade them farewell, saying that they would return up the pass to see if any other travellers needed aid. 

"This is yours," Hassan said shyly to Yusuf before they parted, offering up the fire steel that he had carefully held onto since the fight. 

"Ah, you still have it," Yusuf said with a kind smile that crinkled the edges of his eyes. "You can keep it, Hassan, and may it serve you well."

"Where will you go?" Hassan asked. "Do you just wander here in the mountains and look for people to help?"

Yusuf shook his head. "We look for people to help, but not just in these mountains. We travel all over, just as you now must do. May Allah make your journey safe and swift. Who knows," he added, "maybe one day our paths will cross again."

Hassan hooked the steel onto his belt, as he'd seen grown men do, and watched them walk away until they disappeared over the crest of the mountain and he couldn't see them any longer.

~~~

_Timbuktu, Songhai Empire, 1509_

He saw them again in Timbuktu, years later. Hassan was a young man then, and travelling with his uncle on a diplomatic mission. His family had settled in Fez and made a new life for themselves there, his father and uncle both attached to the Sultan's court as minor officials. His sisters had grown up barely remembering any other life. He had attended the university there in Fez, studying law and the Quran, and now was in a good position to assist his uncle Salih, who served as an ambassador, travelling throughout many parts of Africa on the Sultan's business. 

Hassan best liked visiting the markets in Timbuktu. It was a great center of learning, such that books were among the most valuable goods bought and sold there, above even such riches as salt and spices, copper and silk. Although he could not buy the books there - for most were beyond the reach of his pocketbook, and even if he could have afforded them, he would then have to carry them half the length and breadth of Africa to bring them home - he enjoyed looking at them, leafing through their sun-bleached pages and seeing what he could make out of the many languages therein. Arabic, of course, but also books in the Maghrebi script, Latin, Hebrew, Greek, and other tongues he did not recognize. 

He was examining a book of astronomical tables under the wary eye of the merchant who no doubt knew he wasn't going to buy it, when he saw them. He might not have recognized them - many visitors came to the market, after all, and they were dressed in the style of many other travelers, the women's faces veiled and the men in djellaba. They only stood out because one of the men was so unusually pale, his fair skin reddened from the sun, that it drew Hassan's gaze. Only when he looked at the other man, his companion, and then noticed the two women with them, veiled but carrying bows over their shoulders, did he begin to think it might be them - the same four warriors who had rescued his family so many years ago. 

As he had grown older, he had sometimes wondered what to make of that night. He had asked his father about it, once, to be sure that he hadn't imagined some of the details. His father agreed that it had happened, but said that it was best forgotten - that it would only upset his mother and sisters to remind them of such events. But he had not forgotten it, could not forget it. He kept the small curved piece of steel that Yusuf had given him as a memento, to remind himself that it had really happened. He did not know whether the man had truly died and returned to life, or whether it had been the dark and his youthful inexperience playing tricks on his memory, but he knew that either way, they had helped a group of people whom they did not know and had no reason to lend their aid. There had been no great reward in it for them, as far as he knew, and no fame or glory for their skill in battle. They had done it simply because they were in the right place at the right time, and because they could.

Hassan watched as they moved through the market crowd. They seemed intent, walking not swiftly, but with purpose, the men's expressions serious and grim, the women's eyes cold. He thought about approaching them to speak, to learn if it was truly them, but his feet seemed to be rooted to the ground, his hands trembling. The book trader scowled and said, "If you are not going to buy my wares, then at least don't drop them." Hassan turned back to apologize, placing the valuable tome back on the cloth spread out to protect it from the dust and sun, and by the time he looked up again, the four warriors were gone.

Perhaps he could have caught up to them, if he had run after them, but he thought the better of it. From the look on their faces, they had business that was better not interrupted. And if he was wrong, if they were not the people he thought they were, then such an intrusion might end badly for him. Instead he returned to his uncle's encampment and did not speak of what he had seen.

The next morning, as they ate their boiled millet with milk, word reached them from the locals that there had been an attack the previous night on a slave trader's holding facility, allowing some fifty or more slaves to make their escape. They spoke of a group of warriors who had led the raid, two men and two women, who attacked the guards by surprise and led the slaves away. Hassan looked to his uncle to see if he would say anything, but all he said, at least in front of the others, was, "To Allah all things belong, and to him they return."

"It was them," he said to his uncle later, once they were alone. "The warriors who saved us. I saw them yesterday in the marketplace."

"How could it be?" wondered Salih. "So many years later, and so far from al-Andalus? You must have been mistaken."

"I was sure it was them," Hassan retorted firmly. "Although I only saw them for a few moments, they looked just the same."

"Impossible," Salih replied. "They would be much older by now, if they still survived."

That thought had barely occurred to Hassan. It was true, though - they had looked no older than the last time he had seen them, which was surely impossible. 

"Unless," his uncle added with a slight chuckle, "they are angels, like those that helped the Prophet upon the battlefield." 

This was a thought that would dwell with Hassan for many years yet to come, although he was not yet sure of the truth of it.

~~~

_Rome, the Papal States, 1527_

The soldiers outside the gates of the city were so numerous, they seemed to stretch on for miles. The din of their clamour was drowned out periodically by the thunder of cannon-fire and the blast of arquebuses from the walls and towers of the holy city. Hassan, whose name was no longer Hassan, was sheltered in the Vatican, but even from within its hallowed walls the noise was breathtaking. He had already made up his mind to flee if he could, but there was something he would not leave without. And so he hurried through the marble halls of the library, the rows of books trembling with each renewed blast from the cannons outside, seeking one volume among the many.

He had not come to Rome of his own accord. On a return voyage from Constantinople to Tunis some ten years previously, his ship had been captured by corsairs and he had been taken as a captive. He could well have ended his days as a galley slave, but he had impressed his captors with his intelligence and knowledge of languages. First he was brought to the Knights Hospitaller, who in turn brought him to the Pope in Rome as a kind of offering. The Pope had freed him, and given him payment as an inducement to stay. At first, Hassan thought that he wanted to learn from him, and that was true, but not purely for its own sake. They feared that the Turks might invade their land, and sought information about these enemies, which he was capable enough of granting.

Two years into his stay, he was baptised by Pope Leo in St. Peter's Basilica, and took the name Johannes Leo de Medicis, or Giovanni Leone. In his birth tongue, he rendered it as Yuhanna al-Asad al-Gharnati, or Giovanni the Lion of Granada. Being seen to be a Christian gave him certain privileges which he enjoyed - a greater freedom to travel within the Christian lands, and access to places he might not otherwise have been permitted, like the great libraries of the church. His thirst for learning and exploration could thus be slaked, and his standing among the locals increased by his seeming conversion. Whatever he believed in his heart, he trusted, was between himself and God.

He travelled to Bologna, to the great university, and taught Arabic to the scholars there. The medical students were particularly interested in learning of the techniques that the doctors of the Muslim world practiced, and Giovanni gave them what instruction he could, and helped them to translate books from Arabic and Hebrew into their own language. In return, he was allowed to study their volumes on everything from astronomy to alchemy to history, a wealth of knowledge. He stayed there for five years, and earned a reputation as a wise scholar, so much so that learned men travelled from far away to consult with him. 

In 1526, he made his way back to Rome. There was a new Pope by then, this one named Clement, and Giovanni was encouraged to visit him and pay his respects. He had also, by this point, begun what he believed would be his greatest work - an account of his travels through Africa, with information about the geography and peoples of those lands. Even the learned men in these northern kingdoms knew relatively little about Africa, and what they did know was often wrong or belonged to the distant past, not the present day. Whatever information Giovanni could provide, they ate up eagerly, and in time he came to believe that writing a book would be the most effective means of relating his account - he was but one man with a single voice, but a book could travel through many hands and teach many scholars, and would endure even after his death. Particularly with the new printing presses that were becoming so widespread, his words could be distributed far and wide. He brought the manuscript with him to Rome in order to continue his work on it there, and at last completed it.

However, the situation in Rome was troubled. War had broken out with the Hapsburgs, with the French and the kingdoms of Italy united against them. The Emperor's troops had defeated the French army, but, rumor had it, he had been unable or unwilling to pay them. The German soldiers, twenty thousand or more, now out of all control, marched towards Rome, considering it a rich, and largely defenseless, target. The city was guarded by five thousand troops at most, and contained a great many riches of the church, making it a desirable plum to pick. By the time Giovanni decided to get out as best as he could, it was too late.

Even with this threat bearing down on the city, he could not leave without his manuscript. It was the only copy, and if it was destroyed, all his work would be lost. So, with Rome under assault, not knowing whether he would be able to get away in time or not, he rushed to recover it from the Papal library, where a scribe had been working on copying it so that it might be stored there.

The library was deserted, all of its usual gaggle of priests and scholars gone to hide, and Giovanni was not sure where his manuscript was to be located. By the faint moonlight and the occasional flash of weapons outside, he searched each cubicle and desk in the scriptorium. At last he found it - nine volumes in length, a heavy weight to bear, but one he was unwilling to part with. Fortunately, it looked like the copy had been almost entirely completed. If the library here should survive, then his book would too. Hastily, but with due care, he loaded his original manuscript into the satchel he had brought for that purpose. Under this new burden, he turned to go, seeking a route to St. Peter's Square and thus out of the palace complex. 

As he emerged, the sounds of hand-to-hand fighting told him that the walls of the city must have been breached. The Pope's Swiss guards, easy to recognize in their bright livery, were greatly outnumbered by the invaders, and were suffering many casualties. Giovanni kept to the shadows of the building, trying to avoid detection. As a group of German soldiers ran past, he ducked into a little alleyway, praying they hadn't seen him. The prayers of his youth were what came to his lips now in this time of danger, and he found himself whispering words he had not uttered aloud in years, "La hawla wala quwata illa billah." _There is no change or strength except through Allah._

"La ilaha illa Allah," came a voice from behind him. Hearing those words spoken in this place, at this moment, was about as unlikely as the moon falling out of the sky, and he whipped around, startled. Standing there was a man in a hood, which he pushed back so that his curly hair was visible, and the faint light could outline his face. He could not believe it, and yet, somehow, it seemed perfectly reasonable that the man who had rescued him some thirty-four years ago should be standing here, looking no older than he had then.

"Yusuf?"

The man smiled and gave a slight nod. "Do I know you, brother?"

"My name is Hassan," he said, and knew the truth in those words. "Many years ago, you saved my family's lives."

"Then perhaps our meeting here tonight was fated," Yusuf said. "But for now, we should get out of here. It is not safe to stay." The echoes of arquebus fire and the clash of swords made clear that he spoke the truth, and Hassan was more than willing to follow his lead. 

As they moved swiftly through the back alleys near the Papal palace, Yusuf with his short blade drawn for any close quarter fighting that might be needed and Hassan just doing his best to keep up, the screams of women and children told them that the invading army were pressing further into the residential areas of the city. Hassan wondered briefly if the Pope would make it to safety or if he would be killed like so many others, one more body among the dead. "Are your friends with you?" he gasped, when they paused for breath for a moment.

Yusuf nodded. "Andromache, Quynh, and Nicolò are helping others get to safety. The great fort, the one they call the Angel, may be strong enough to withstand such an assault. I can take you there if you wish. It may be the safest place in the city."

"I had intended to get away if I could," Hassan told him. "There is nothing left for me here - the city's ruin will be complete."

"Rome has been ruined before," Yusuf said, "and risen again, several times, and it may yet surprise you. But if you wish to escape entirely, I'll do what I can to see you safely away from here." 

Despite how unlikely this all seemed, Hassan found that he trusted him. "What of the others, though?"

"My companions? They'll be fine," Yusuf assured him. 

"No, I mean... the others in the city," Hassan said. "Many are already dead, and more will die as the soldiers gain more ground. Can't you save them too? Why save me and not someone else?"

Yusuf looked grim as he shook his head. "We can only do what tasks are put before us. We came here knowing there would be a battle, and hoping that by our presence, we might save some lives, but to save everyone is an impossible demand, even for us. But perhaps you were put in my path so that I could help you."

"What are you?" Hassan asked, gazing at the tower of the Angel ahead of them and wondering whether it would keep them safe. "Are you angels? Jinn? Something else?"

"It's difficult to explain," Yusuf said, clearly a bit reluctantly. "And we definitely don't have time to go into that now. Come, the street is clear now, follow me."

As they approached the Castel Sant'Angelo, they could see that many others were trying to get inside - cardinals and lords mingled with ordinary folk, all trying to cross the bridge over the Tiber and make their way into the relative safety of the fortress. In the distance, Hassan could see fires burning all over the city. 

Drawing nearer, Yusuf gave a cry of relief to see at least one of his companions. The man he had called Nicolò was positioned at the edge of one of the ramparts of the fort, defending a group of women and children. "Where are the others?" Yusuf asked.

"Quynh wanted to try and blow up the bridge, to keep the soldiers on the other side of the river," Nicolò replied, in what Hassan now understood as Genoese mingled with a smattering of Arabic and Latin, "but there are too many civilians on it - she was going to try and move them off, but I'm not sure she had much success. Last I saw Andromache, she was on the walls, helping fire a cannon, but I think most of the troops on the walls have fallen back now."

Yusuf nodded. "Let's find them and get out of the city with as many people as we can. The soldiers are already trying to close the portcullis of the fort - if we get in there, we'll be stuck."

Hassan could see the wisdom in what he was suggesting. The way things were proceeding, while the Castel Sant'Angelo might be safe from the invaders, it might also wind up being besieged. At that moment, a shout rose up from the river, and Nicolò and Yusuf turned from their discussion to see a woman waving her arms from a barge that had just appeared from beneath the Ponte Sant'Angelo. As it drifted towards the bank of the river, Hassan could see her beckoning for them to come closer. Yusuf rushed to the river's edge and grasped a rope she tossed to him, helping to draw the boat in closer. Then he waved for the rest of them to follow. Nicolò shepherded the group of women and children down to the shore, and Hassan followed, carrying one of the smallest youngsters, who was crying. He was reminded, vividly, of his little sister Amina, and wondered if she was even still alive. Together they helped the people on board, packing the boat as tightly as it could bear. 

"Andromache," Yusuf said once he was aboard, "what is this?"

Hassan looked to where he was pointing, and saw a small cannon nestled in the bow of the boat that surely hadn't been there originally. "I borrowed it," the woman called Andromache said with a grin. "Are we ready to go?"

"We can't fit any more aboard," Nicolò shouted. "We're already too low in the water."

"Then let's go," Andromache said. The other woman, Quynh, and Yusuf and Nicolò, helped push them away from the shore, and the sluggish current began to carry them down the Tiber. 

The chaos on the bridge faded behind them, but there were still enemies on the shore. "Keep your heads low," Nicolò told the civilians who crouched on the deck, huddling together in fear. Hassan understood their feeling of helplessness, the uncertainty of knowing whether they would ever see their homes or loved ones again, the desperate hope that they were surely clinging to that maybe they would be saved. Some of the women were praying, while others tried to hush the crying children. 

"What can I do to help?" he asked Yusuf. 

"Do you know how to fire a cannon?" the other man asked.

"I'm a scholar," Hassan said. "I've never had to. But I can learn quickly."

"Good," Yusuf replied, accepting an arquebus that Nicolò handed him and moving to the bow of the ship. "Because it looks like there's trouble ahead."

The trouble, it soon became apparent, was the Isola Tiberina, the small patch of land between two bridges which housed several churches, and so made a desirable target for the rioting soldiers. To continue their escape, they would have to pass under one of the bridges, but that meant they would be exposed to the soldiers, who might fire on them. Quynh had readied her bow and was taking aim, while Nicolò worked at steering the boat so that they wouldn't be rammed into one of the bridge's supports. Hassan presented himself to Andromache and said, "Please, my lady, let me help you."

Working quickly, she showed him the basics of how to fire the cannon. "I'll handle loading and aiming. You light the powder when I give you the word."

Hassan nodded. At his belt, he still carried the steel that Yusuf had bestowed upon him so many years before. Now, he felt as though there had been a reason he had been given it - a reason that he had been saved, so that he could in turn save others. Kindling a spark and keeping the flame alight, he waited for Andromache's order. 

Quynh fired first - her bow could strike silently and swiftly, and she picked off several soldiers before they were even aware that the barge was there. Once they were noticed, however, the soldiers wasted no time in returning fire. The sound of the firearms was deafening, and most of the women flattened themselves on the deck, sheltering the children with their bodies. "Now!" Andromache yelled, and Hassan touched the spark to the fuse that would ignite the gunpowder. The cannon rocked back as it fired, and the ball flew straight and true, cutting through the men on the bridge. The soldiers who were still standing fell back and gave them a few moments to pass under the bridge. In the dark of its shelter, cries echoed off the stone walls, and as they emerged from the other side, another soldier appeared at the edge to fire down upon them when they were at their most vulnerable. His shot struck Yusuf as he returned fire, catching him in the shoulder. Quynh had been waiting, though, and fired her weapon back at him. His scream as he fell was cut off by the splash of the water as he sank and was gone. 

They passed without further harm. The further they traveled down the river, the more quiet it became. The din of the battle faded behind them, and soon Hassan could hear the soft lap of the waves against the boat's hull and the croaking call of a night-heron as well as the gentle sobs of the children. Yusuf's arm seemed unharmed, a fact which somehow surprised Hassan less than it might otherwise have done. Finally, exhausted, Hassan dozed off, curled around the pack that held his books.

At last, as the sun was beginning to rise, they put in at Ostia, the port that led to the sea. As Andromache and Quynh helped the still-shaken civilians off the boat, Hassan turned to Yusuf. "I know you have said you are not an angel or a jinn, but I don't know of any other beings that could be shot - twice - and not even show so much as a scratch, or who could live for thirty years and not age a day. I will not ask you more, because I think you will not speak of such things, but I believe you were sent by Allah to save these people, and myself."

"I won't dispute you, professor," Yusuf said with a smile. "Where will you go from here?"

"I'll find passage on a ship to Tunis, and then from there back to Fez, at least first," Hassan told him. "My family - whoever among them still survives - is there, and it has been too many years since I last saw them. It's likely they do not even know I'm alive. Then... I'm not certain. Perhaps, like you, I will travel to wherever my skills are needed."

"It is a difficult path ahead, but a worthy one," Yusuf told him. "Jazakallah khairan, Hassan."

"And to you, Yusuf. If you ever come to Fez, seek me out, or my family - you and your companions will always be honoured guests under my roof. Safe travels."

"I think that is unlikely," Yusuf said, and for a moment there was a weariness in his eyes that seemed to carry the weight of centuries. "But we will survive," he added, brightening again. "Thank you for your aid. It gladdens my heart to know that you and your family made it safely to Fez, and have prospered there."

"And it gladdens my heart in turn to know that there are beings such as you and your friends in this world," Hassan told him. "As much as I treasure knowledge, there will always be some things that I cannot comprehend - and yet, I marvel at their glory nevertheless."

The last Hassan saw of them, they were setting off to the north, to Florence and then perhaps to Milan, and he was waiting for his ship to depart. As he settled in for the voyage, he took out his book and, finding some blank pages yet remained at the back, began to write.

**Author's Note:**

> I have played around with some of the known facts of the life of Hassan ibn Muhammad al-Wazzan al-Fasi, also known as Giovanni Leone de Medicis, also known as [Leo Africanus](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leo_Africanus), and have filled in a number of gaps in his story where necessary for my story. Some errors are deliberate and some are no doubt inadvertent, but all are my own.


End file.
